Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [2]
I don’t know what your “minor” stipulations might be, but I have only one, and it’s major: If we do this and it sells, we split the money down the middle. Given our history—not to mention your lifelong obsession with butlers and other menservants—I think this can work only if we approach it as equals. I realize you’re the “name” here, but if I didn’t have something you wanted, I figure you wouldn’t be asking me.
If you agree to that, I’m game. And hopefully not in the hunting sense.
Dave
Dave,
I can handle the fifty-fifty split, but only with a couple of sensible amendments. First, I get top billing, since you agree that I’m the “name” author. Second, you may not discuss any aspect of our collaboration with our mutual acquaintances.
My final stipulation is that you simply correct my spelling and grammar, rather than mock me for it. You know what I’ve discovered in the world of publishing? Copy editors. They’re totally awesome and they never insult me.
I just want to mention two more things: (1) Most people secretly wish they had a butler. I simply have the courage to openly voice my desire. (2) Read your description of The Fop. How was it not obvious we were talking about a broad comedy? I’m hoping the first chapter will make the tone of this story unmistakable, but if you’re confused, please ask. Don’t try to create a new genre.
So let’s get started.
Lisa
Untitled
LISA LUTZ
with DAVID HAYWARD
CHAPTER 1
Paul flipped the coin and Lacey called tails. It was heads. Had the quarter made one more half-flip, who knows how differently things might have turned out? Paul could let things go; Lacey couldn’t. But there’s no point in thinking about what might have happened. Lacey lost the coin toss, so this is how the story goes.
Thursday was trash night. Lacey and Paul Hansen, grown siblings living under the same roof, had evolved tools for resolving simple disputes. In their childhood, they’d resort to wrestling matches or the slap game. But ever since their parents died, Paul had refused to engage in any physical altercation with his sister. Now that they were in their late twenties, the coin toss was the judge and jury in their household. Lacey grabbed her coat and slipped on her boots. She pulled the trash from the pantry and stepped out into the crisp California night. The sky was almost clotted with stars. She dumped the trash and dragged the bin down the long driveway and deposited it on the curb.
When she turned to look back at their house, a modest rambler lonely among acres of forest, all she could see was one dim light in the living room and the flicker of a television set. Paul was always watching TV. During the day, their home appeared ordinary and peaceful, if not a little weather-worn. A paint job wouldn’t hurt. Though Mercer (pop. 1,280) was only a few miles away, it felt like they lived in the middle of nowhere. No other homes could be seen from their doorstep. As children they’d played in the forest that abutted their backyard, creating the footpaths that now guided them through the once-impenetrable terrain. Lacey had thought it was the most beautiful place in the world. Not anymore.
Now she mostly thought about how she would escape. Some days she pictured herself as far away as Italy. Other times she thought San Francisco would suffice. From there she could still keep a close watch on her brother. After their parents’ death, she was the only real family he had. Even Aunt Gwen was gone, retired to Canada. And when Paul came back from college, his life didn’t exactly fill up with friends. She stayed for him, she told herself. As far as Lacey could tell, Paul didn’t want to go anywhere. He could see the entire world on the Travel Channel—what